Transmigrated as the Disabled Alpha of the Yandere Film Empress - Chapter 28
Chapter 28
With only twenty minutes until the 11 o’clock wedding banquet…
In the long corridor bathed in amber light, the click of heels and the hum of a wheelchair grew closer to Zhou Yuan’s makeup room.
“Twenty minutes ago, Lu Ke held her there—inside it’s only her,” Little K murmured.
Song Yanrong’s face went cold: “Evict all unnecessary personnel, lock the floor down, and let no one in.”
“Yes.” He replied.
Outside the floor…
Ying Junmei couldn’t find Song Yanrong or Su Jia — and now Zhou Yuan was also missing. She and Zhou’s matriarch searched hallways until confronted by black-suited guards at the entrance.
“You dare intercept us? Don’t you know who we are?!” Zhou’s matriarch snapped.
Ying Junmei, outraged: “Who gave you the authority to do this?”
Zhao Wen stepped forward with folded arms: “Song Yanrong asked me to tell you two things: first, she’ll have Zhou Yuan escorted out later; second—neither of them will attend the wedding.”
“That’s nonsense!” the matriarch exploded.
“Hold on,” Zhao Wen drew a cigarette and exhaled, annoyed. “She suggested a clever work-around: veil the three brides so no one recognizes them—just grab two stand-ins to get through the ceremony.”
She shrugged and flicked ash: “Don’t glare at me… Song Yanrong told me to say it.”
Two seconds came and went without acknowledgment; Zhao Wen frowned and looked back. The substitute guards finally took the lit cigarette and stubbed it out.
She sneered, “Whoever undermines this—want to see their fingers bloom.”
Ying Junmei was furious, pointing to rebuke, but too incensed to speak coherently. Frustrated, she stalked off.
…
Zhao Wen reached Zhou Yuan’s makeup room door just as Lu Ke exited. She scowled and grabbed her: “Can’t you recruit someone capable, for once?”
Lu Ke calmly produced a cigarette from her pocket.
Zhao Wen snapped: “I’m talking to you.”
Lu Ke finally looked up: “What do you consider ‘capable’?”
Zhao Wen paused, then slowly replied: “Someone other than you.” She trailed off. Lu Ke remained silent, stern.
Zhao Wen took another drag, then flicked smoke in Lu Ke’s face: “Stone cold.”
She laughed at Lu Ke’s expression before turning on her heel.
…
Behind the door, Zhou Yuan sat pinned to a chair, staring at Song Yanrong’s ice-cold expression.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Punishing,” Song answered, voice flat.
Little K moved forward. “Apologies, Miss Zhou.”
Without warning, a sharp slap landed on Zhou Yuan’s face, then another—Little K’s hands moved like lightning.
The sound of high-pitched smacks and fragmented cursing rang through the room for over ten seconds before Little K stepped back.
Zhou Yuan’s once-glamorous face was badly swollen. Tears filled eyes burning with fury. She spat out, “Song Yanrong…”
Song remained silent. A servant entered, carrying a white porcelain cup.
Zhou Yuan eyed it, fear on her face: “What are you doing?”
Song’s voice was bitterly calm: “Clearly you know what this is.”
Zhou Yuan shook her head, voice hysterical: “You’re insane!”
Song’s lips curved in a cruel smile: “Drink it. Every drop.”
Zhou Yuan shouted she wouldn’t, but Little K violently forced the cup to her lips, pouring the cool liquid down her throat. About half was consumed before she vomited violently.
But the taste of rose tea lingered. With the added drug, her wedding would soon become a public spectacle.
“Now are you afraid?” Song asked coldly.
Zhou Yuan retched again, then, weak and sobbing, glared upward: “You have to be so cruel to me?!”
Song didn’t reply—her icy gaze said it all.
Everyone predicted the wedding would collapse. Yet, improbably, it went ahead as planned. Four brides—three veiled. Song Hanshuang alone remained unveiled.
It became the most talked-about ceremony in Central South City—stunning yet strange.
After the banquet, only Song Hanshuang emerged publicly. The other three vanished from sight.
That night:
Song Hanshuang entered the bridal suite—assigned as the after-party room—only to find a scene of chaos. Smashed glass and lingering smells of smoke and alcohol filled the air.
Zhou Yuan sat on the sofa, face swollen, staring at her. Hanshuang’s patience snapped; she turned to leave.
“You trying to walk away?” Zhou Yuan screamed.
Hanshuang stopped, turning with a chilling calm: “Am I supposed to report to you? We agreed before the wedding—after marriage, we don’t interfere. Don’t overstep.”
Zhou Yuan hurled her glass at Hanshuang’s feet: “If you dare leave now, I’ll kill you!”
That finally made Hanshuang laugh, rage tinged with disdain. She slapped Zhou Yuan hard.
Zhou fell to the ground, clutching her face: “How dare you hit me!”
She sobbed, humiliated beyond reason. No one supported her—not her mother, not even those at the banquet.
Hanshuang, napkin in hand, wiped her palm: “Since you’re here, shut your mouth. Go haul your threats elsewhere.”
She stormed out, descending the stairwell in a huff, furious and resentful at the officer’s absurd life.
“Hanshuang.” A soft, familiar voice called.
She paused. “Auntie?”
It was Song Qi—her aunt, 37 years old, beautifully dressed in gray knit and black skirt, brunette curls framing her face. Intelligent, alluring, and gentle.
Song Hanshuang paused mid-step.
“Aren’t you going out at this hour?”
Song Hanshuang shook her head, paused, then said,
“Auntie, you’ve been through what I’m going through… You should understand why I’m heading out at a time like this.”
Song Qi’s expression faltered slightly. She seemed to recall something, then smiled gently,
“It’ll all pass.”
“You got past it by getting divorced. That’s how you moved on.”
Song Hanshuang lit a cigarette, exhaling the smoke to the side so it didn’t blow toward Song Qi.
“It’s meaningless, isn’t it?”
Her words carried a hint of bitterness.
Song Hanshuang rarely said things like this to anyone. Almost never. There wasn’t really anyone she could say it to.
Any time she brought it up with Ying Junmei, she only got one response:
“You have greater things to do. Don’t waste time dwelling on these petty emotions—that’s the thinking of losers.”
Occasionally, when she drank too much, she’d vent to one of her lovers.
But they always just pandered to her. Always.
To them, as long as she gave them money, she was a god—an invincible woman beyond reach.
“Auntie, when does this kind of life end?” Song Hanshuang smiled bitterly.
Song Qi softened her gaze. “Don’t lose hope. Things will get better. Go out if you need to—but don’t stay too long, or they’ll notice and you’ll get a headache.”
Hanshuang gave her a smile. “Got it. Why is Song Lü still here?”
She looked toward the woman not far away, now dressed in black. The woman was walking quickly, eyes straight ahead.
Song Qi’s smile faded at the mention of her name. She turned, only to catch a glimpse of that slender, tall silhouette.
Hanshuang scoffed,
“She’s still as unlikable as ever—like everyone owes her something.”
This time, Song Qi didn’t respond.
…
Song Lü walked briskly to the parking lot. Her phone buzzed several times in her pocket. She stood silently beside the car for a few seconds before pulling it out.
“You really won’t see me, even once?”
“I’ll be staying in South City for a week after the wedding.”
The hotel parking lot was brightly lit. She stood almost as if blending into the background—her face, however, looked pale as paper.
She blocked the number with no contact name.
Then she saw a WeChat message from Song Yanyong:
[If you’re free, come back and I’ll treat you to a meal.]
She didn’t reply. She got into the car. The door shut with a bang, sealing the world outside.
At the same time, Song Yanyong was leaving the hotel with Su Jia, heading back to South City.
Inside the nanny van, Song Yanyong held Su Jia close, gently massaging her arm to comfort her.
They sat in silence for a long time.
“What are you thinking about?” Su Jia asked.
“About the Zhou family… the timing,” Song replied.
“What timing?”
“Unlucky timing.”
She didn’t explain further. According to the original story, Zhou Yuan’s family would soon fall into a stock and bond crisis. Not only the Zhou family, but all of South City would be shaken.
At that point, the Song family’s dreams of a perfect alliance would crumble—and worse, they might get dragged down with the Zhou family.
That would be her chance to strike.
She had swapped out the tea Zhou Yuan was supposed to drink—not out of mercy, but because that wasn’t her way of doing things.
Song Yanyong ruffled Su Jia’s hair. “Don’t worry. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you at the airport.”
“You should rest too.”
Su Jia still hadn’t fully recovered—the sedative had a calming effect. She had spent most of the day asleep, and when she was awake, she sought out Song Yanyong’s comfort.
She was exhausted. And so was Song Yanyong.
Especially Song Yanyong—she’d barely rested.
But her energy was far greater than expected. Every time, Su Jia could easily stir her desires…
Still, no matter how strong Song Yanyong was, she needed rest too.
The sound of traffic occasionally echoed around them.
Song Yanyong drifted off into a half-sleep. A honking horn pierced her dream, pulling her back into a familiar nightmare—
The memory of her original self being hit by a car.
She lay on the asphalt, the surroundings silent as a tomb.
High heels clicked closer, like the ghost of death. A woman approached step by step and finally stopped just a few feet away.
She tried hard to see clearly.
A black coat… with red on it. A scarf—dark red. She was just about to see the woman’s face—so close.
…
Su Jia was awakened by low murmuring beside her. She opened her eyes.
Rising from Song Yanyong’s shoulder, she found her fast asleep again—breathing evenly.
Rubbing her dry eyes, she picked up her phone just as it buzzed.
A message from Feng Qingrui.
Qingrui: “I just finished filming. I’m dead tired. You must be exhausted from your wedding too.”
Qingrui: “Didn’t even send me a photo—heartless.”
Su Jia: “Tired.”
Su Jia: “Very.”
As for the photos—those were out of the question.
Song Yanyong had torn the wedding dress to shreds.
In the condition Su Jia had been in at the time, it wasn’t practical to take it off. By the time she came to her senses, the multi-million-dollar gown was nothing but scraps.
Qingrui: “Ughh, I heard weddings are exhausting. Rest well.”
Qingrui: “By the way… Did you know Han Yiwen is coming back?”
Su Jia showed no change of expression—she seemed to have forgotten that name entirely.
She replied: “Okay.”
Then casually tossed the phone aside.
Turning to look again at Song Yanyong’s face.
Her gaze slid down to her neck—there was a visible wound, scabbing red. In the afternoon, it had been covered by a bandage, but after all their… “activities,” it had fallen off. Yanyong didn’t bother to replace it.
And Su Jia forgot too.
Song Lü had said the wound was from protecting her. She regretted not seeing the moment herself.
Earlier, she’d asked Yanyong why she hadn’t sent Little K and the others to handle it—it was dangerous.
Yanyong had calmly said, “I wasn’t thinking. Song Lü told me—there was no time.”
She had a strong sense of timing. To her, “no time” meant the hourglass had almost emptied.
While Su Jia was still thinking about that, Yanyong softly said:
“I was worried about you.”
Su Jia couldn’t remember if she had responded then. Maybe she hadn’t.
She only remembered one thing—Song Lü’s words:
“Only on the condition that you never fall in love.”
Su Jia stared at her a while longer, lips pressed together. Then she reached up and pulled the partition shut.
And leaned in—
To kiss Song Yanyong’s neck. Slowly. Gently. Licking, tasting.
The saltiness of sweat… and a hint of bl00d.
She could feel Yanyong’s breathing shift slightly, but she didn’t wake. That gave Su Jia a strange thrill—like a forbidden act.
Soon, her neck wasn’t enough.
Yanyong had changed into a simple beige knitted camisole dress. Su Jia’s eyes traced down from her collarbone… to the soft curve of her chest.
She gently brushed her nose against it… then moved downward.
Kneeling, she reached Song Yanyong’s calf—still cut from glass shards.
That leg was numb—so Su Jia kissed it without restraint.
Her tongue lingered for several seconds—until Song Yanyong’s voice rasped out:
“What are you doing?”
Su Jia looked up, eyes glistening with heat:
“You’re awake.”
How could she not be?
Yanyong yanked her up into her lap, shifted, and pinned her hand to the window before lowering her head into a deep kiss.
Waking kisses were always… aggressive.
Outside, the night in Port City had turned foggy.
Yanyong cracked the window just a few inches. Misty wind drifted in—damp, hot, and heavy with desire. It swirled through the car like waves.
A few times, passing headlights swept through. When they did, Yanyong pressed Su Jia’s head to her chest—
Leaving only her pale, bare back exposed against the windowpane.